


The Hunchback of Somewhere Else

by TheUnvanquishedZims



Series: Disney, A Little to the Left [1]
Category: Disney - All Media Types, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Gen, The Archdeacon Actually Uses His Brain, The Archdeacon is a Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25490869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUnvanquishedZims/pseuds/TheUnvanquishedZims
Summary: What if the Archdeacon refused to place a child in hands already stained with blood?
Series: Disney, A Little to the Left [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1846573
Kudos: 34





	The Hunchback of Somewhere Else

The Archdeacon thought he had inspired a true come-to-God moment in the Judge, but the man’s fear lasted only long enough to hear the consequences of his actions. “Saddled with this misshapen creature” was a telling enough reaction. Immediately abandoning the child to the church’s custody could be the act of a busy old man with no childcare experience, but demanding the infant be locked away where no one else could see it was not the action of a man truly intending to raise a child. The way he called it a foul creature and said it may someday be of use to him was the final nail in the coffin of the Archdeacon’s trust.

The cruel name he tried to give the boy rang in the Archdeacon’s ears as he carried the infant inside, louder than any bell. He snorted to himself. “The bell tower indeed,” he muttered. A good place to drown out the cries of an unwanted child, not a soothing place to help a newborn sleep. The boy would be deaf in a month if he lived there.

“I tried,” he sighed as he lit a candle for the soul of the mother, her body still cooling on the front steps. He would need to rouse the gravedigger. “Jesus, Mary and all the saints as my witnesses, I tried to help him atone.” So saying, he prayed a quiet curse upon the Judge, and a plea for forgiveness for his own actions that night. Following the gravedigger to the cemetery, he prayed as many blessings as he could think of over the child. The church at least would guarantee him a pious life full of light and music, scriptures and psalms surrounding him every day of his life...but not safety. The Judge was a murderer, and appealing to his piety had failed. It was naive of him to try, but one must be a little naive to have faith, the Archdeacon mused as he left the gravedigger to his work. He would return to preside over her rites, but for now...

“At least you will have some miracles in your life, little one,” he whispered as he pressed in a stone on the mausoleum and descended the stairs into the crypts. It wasn’t long before he was accosted by the gypsies, but his garb afforded him certain protections. “One of yours,” he said, holding out the quietly snuffling bundle. “The mother is upstairs, soon to be downstairs.” He tried to smile as he tacked on “And soon after, hopefully, further upstairs.”

The masked man chuckled, causing the others surrounding the pair to laugh as well. A little gallows humor was always well received in the catacombs, and in such grim times even a priest’s poor attempt at a joke was cause for mirth. He prayed another silent prayer of forgiveness for the mother’s soul, as though he could deliver her to the gates of Heaven by will alone. Dying to protect her child was surely enough blood to cover even the most egregious of sins. The Virgin Mother would understand, he believed. A strange gulping noise drew him back to the moment.

The jester’s face below the mask was stretched out in a rictus of a grin, frozen for just a moment as he gazed into the bundle. The Archdeacon stopped himself from snatching the child away from the uncertain reception, and for the second time that night, trusted.

“Ah yes, I recognize him immediately!” the jester burst out, and the Archdeacon relaxed. There was some good in humanity after all. “Why this is my nephew...!” The Archdeacon shrugged at the split-second glance. He would not repeat the insult the Judge tried to saddle the boy with. “...Ruskin! Who could forget him, with such lovely red hair!”

“He doesn’t look like any of your nephews,” said a skinny boy with straight black hair, clad in an outfit to match the jester’s, peering around his father’s side to frown at the infant.

“Fool!” shrieked a puppet that manifested above his head, bringing down a small wooden mallet upon said head. “He is obviously the son of our great-aunt’s father’s third cousin’s best friend’s brother’s niece-in-law!” “Be nice to your cousin,” added the jester in his normal voice as the boy whimpered and rubbed his head, handing the bundle down and shooing the children away into the darkness.

The Archdeacon could pass no further than this, he knew. The tentative peace between the gypsies and the church only stretched so far. Still, he watched until the child’s shadow melted away in the flickering light of the torches, knowing this could well be the last time he saw the boy. The jester coughed and raised an eyebrow at him, and the Archdeacon flushed. So many sins to atone for tonight, he thought guiltily as he pulled a candelabra from under his cloak. There were muted exclamations from the men around him as the gold glinted in the firelight. The jester’s eyes sharpened, gaze going calculating and wary, but face still smiling.

“To cover the cost of his upbringing,” the archdeacon said, heading off any questions and doing his best to anticipate potential arguments. This was the most dangerous thing he had ever done, and he felt it in his bones. One wrong step and his skeleton would join the piles around them. “The donor recently passed away, it will not be missed,” he said carefully, feeling for the right words and trying to instill them with authority. “I give it freely, under my authority as archdeacon, to match your generosity in caring for the poor orphan left on our doorstep.”

“Whyever would I need such a gift, for caring for my dear darling nephew, my own flesh and blood?” the jester chirped back at him. The Archdeacon steadied his breath and willed his outstretched hand equally steady, feeling the strain, both the weight of the candle holder and the gazes of the thieves surrounding him. He had not been cut down yet, he reminded himself, and that was as good as invitation. He chose his words with even greater care.

“Flesh and blood needs food and drink to sustain it, and the boy may not be able to earn his keep.” _The outside as twisted as it is, there is no telling what ailments lay inside._ “And being born in such a cold season, it may prove...unhealthy for the child to be upstairs.” _It’s not safe for him in Paris proper._ “Such a pale child needs sunlight to blossom, though. You may find, when he gets older, that he requires a warmer climate to survive.” _Living in the catacombs forever is not an option for a growing boy, but better to pack him into a southbound caravan than risk sending him out to be discovered by the Judge._

The jester pinned him with another long stare, but then the weight in his hand was gone and the candelabra was a glinting, golden spiral as the jester twirled it, cackling madly. The tension in the air was also gone in a rush, laughter and whoops filling the silence. At least two sharp points were suddenly absent from his back, the Archdeacon realized belatedly. He hadn’t even noticed they were there. Hopefully he would not have spots of blood on his clothes to account for later.

“Such a generous gift, but alas, we have no use for candle holders, being torch people ourselves,” the jester said with a grand wave of his arm and a wink. _You’ll never see this again, it will be broken and melted by the end of the night_. The Archdeacon could read between the lines too. He nodded his head, relief almost turning the dip into a half-bow, and tried not to gasp as the torches all went out at once.

Not a single footstep could be heard as the gypsies abandoned him in the dark, and he was left to grope his way back to the stairs by touch alone. Unpleasant enough in a stone church, but surrounded by the dead, with not even a hint of moonlight to guide him, it was the stuff of nightmares. He mentally subtracted ten Hail Marys from his running total for the night. Twelve, he thought with a shudder as his fingers caught in an empty eye socket, feet stumbling upon the stone steps that lead him back up to the safety of the graveyard.

How could anyone call it dark or frightening, he wondered as he climbed out of the grave and scurried a little faster than dignified back to where he left the gravedigger. It was positively bright with silver moonlight and friendly with familiar headstones, the layer of snow casting a heavenly white blanket over the scene. He reached the side of the gravedigger, who quirked a look at him but otherwise kept his mouth shut. An admirable trait in any man, the Archdeacon thought gratefully as he launched into the most heartfelt rites he’d given that year, prayers and blessings pouring over the woman’s shroud as they lowered her to her final rest, the Archdeacon a bit more carefully than the gravedigger.

“- _forever and ever, amen_. I’ll have a warm meal for you when you’re finished,” he promised the gravedigger. The man merely grunted and picked up his shovel, cold soil cascading back into the hole as he returned to work. The Archdeacon returned to his own work, numb feet carrying him back to the church. First wash the blood from the steps, lest it offend the eyes of the Holy. Then the meal, and perhaps a hot drink for both of them. And then...penance. For this night, and the day that would surely come, when the Judge returned to see his creature. Alas, the poor blighted thing did not survive, its ailments too great, only the love of its mother sustaining it outside the womb for so long. The lie was already fixed firmly in the Archdeacon’s mind, and though he hoped it would bring the Judge even a shred of guilt, he knew in his heart that it would not.

The Archdeacon would waste no more prayers on the man after this night. Judge Claude Frollo was bound for Hell.

**Author's Note:**

> I know very little of Catholicism, especially historical French Catholicism. Please feel free to correct me on any glaringly wrong details.
> 
> Ruskin means Little Red-Haired One. No Quasimodos here.


End file.
